I was the big, bossy older sister, full of enthusiasms, mad fantasies, desperate urges to be famous, and anxious to be a saint – a settled sort of saint, not one who might have to suffer or die for her faith.
I love thriller writers. My favourites are Harlan Coban, Lee Child, Ian Rankin, Kathy Reichs and Ed McBain.
I was lucky enough to be fairly quick at understanding what was taught, but unlucky enough not to be really interested in it, so I always got my exams but never had the scholar’s love of learning for its own sake.
I didn’t have a sweet tooth, but I liked butter, and I liked sauces, and I liked wine and curry and cheeses.
Everybody is a hero in their own story if you just look.
You say to yourself: ‘What could people, in all these countries, find in my books?’ and yet I think we’re all the same, anywhere. Everybody is a hero or a dramatic person in their own story if you just know where to look.
I have been luckier than anyone I know or even heard of. I had a very happy childhood, a good education, I enjoyed working as a teacher, journalist and author. I have loved a wonderful man for over 33 years, and I believe he loves me, too.
I’m particularly fond of boned chicken breasts with a little garlic under the flesh and cooked in a casserole for 40 minutes with a jar of olives, some cherry tomatoes and a spoonful of olive oil.
It’s a funny old world. Once you realize that, you’re halfway there.
Writing is a bit like going on a diet; you should either tell everyone or no one.
It was true what they had been saying: if people remember you, then you’re not dead. It was very comforting.
Stop thinking like Alice in Wonderland, Celia told herself sternly. You’re a grown-up, it’s no use shutting your eyes, wishing things would happen.
It’s what people do is important, not what they say or feel.
I don’t think we should spend any time wandering around that remote possibility. It’s nice of you to wish me well, but actually I find it unbearably patronizing.
He smiled at her, handsome Alan, who was always used to getting his own way. He hadn’t changed. Alan, who was already as faithless to Cinta as he had been to her. Suddenly, like a focus in binoculars, everything became clear. This was a man worth spending not one more minute thinking about, second-guessing or trying to understand.
2. Men like women without make-up. They don’t. They like extremely well and carefully made-up women whose skin has that expensive cultured look which comes from three hours at the dressing table. A woman who is really without make-up would frighten them to death. They regard blotches as eczema, and uneven colouring as a sign of tertiary syphilis.
God, Benny, don’t blow your nose like that in the church. You’d lift half the congregation out of their seats,” Patsy warned.
The rage she felt was a real thing, you could almost take it out of her and see it, like a red mist.
Most people had nobody to share excitements and to celebrate with.
Problems don’t solve themselves neatly like that, due to a set of coincidences. Problems are solved by making decisions. Erika had always said that, and he had thought she was being doctrinaire. But it was true. Deciding not to change anything was a decision in itself. He hadn’t fully understood this before.
There were women who fussed about their homes as if they thought life were a permanent examination where they would be found wanting.